


Cascade

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mild D/s, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin likes the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cascade

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my anon beta for encouraging me to post.

The drumming raindrops raise tiny crowns from the puddles on the street outside your studio.

“I hate this god-awful weather,” says Gwen, a frown marring her forehead while she tidies away pens and drawings into labelled drawers.

You nod, but hide a secret smile, and count the minutes til you can go home and prepare for him.

#

When you get home, you drink some water, strip, shower. Rivulets cascade down the shower glass, mirroring what’s happening outside your windows. The anticipation swells, forcing your ribcage wide, your cheeks high. Laughing, you lift your lips to the warm shower water and let it slide into your mouth.

#

He calls. “It’s wet.”

You roll your eyes. “Talk about stating the bleeding obvious! Want a lift home from the station?”

“No, I’ll walk.” As he pauses you hear his breath hitch, and sense the drift of his thoughts. “Be ready,” he adds, voice deepening.

“I will.” You sound hoarse, even to yourself.

His dry chuckle tells you he hears it, how dry your mouth is, how desperate this makes you. “Drink some water,” he says. “It’s not like there’s a shortage.”

You moisten your lips with your tongue. “How about you? Can’t have you dehydrating, now.”

“I’ve had plenty to drink.” He sounds like he’s purring. “I’ll be _desperate_ for a piss when I get home.” He takes a swig of something, the sound of his gulps loud enough for you to imagine the dip of his Adam’s apple. “I imagine I’ll struggle to make it in through the door in time.”

You know he’s standing on a packed train full of silent commuters, all of them listening. You want to tell him to shut up, that they’ll hear, that they’ll _know_. But you can’t. Your mind is already looking the other way. Forwards in time. The expectation makes your pulse race, makes you gasp out a bitten off sound.

He lets out another low laugh.

“I’ll be ready,” you tell him, _sotto voce_ , even though no one but he can hear. “But I might still be thirsty. When you get here, I mean.” You smile at the helpless sound he lets out in response, and then you break off the call.

You drink some more.

#

And you are ready, true to your promise, when the door opens and he pushes through it, letting his bag crash to the floor. The door clicks shut. The rain has transformed his hair from blond into something darker; his predatory gaze alights upon you, his prey. Water drips onto his broad shoulders.

Approving eyes take in your preparations.

“Evening, lover, how was your day?” you say, brightly, knowing it’ll annoy him. You start to fuss at his jacket, peeling it and tossing it aside onto the plastic matting. His shirt is slick, cold to the touch, with a hint of warmth beneath.

“You’re a filthy tease!” he growls. “Let me in. You’re in my way.”

The intensity of his glare makes you shiver, but you grin and block his path with a hand. You’ve rehearsed your lines well, and so has he.

“I don’t think so,” you say, head on one side. “You’re dripping everywhere.”

His glare darkens even further. Grasping your shoulders, his palms raising goose bumps on your bare flesh, he stands with his legs bracketing yours. He starts to manhandle you backwards, the chill of his wet clothes not disguising the warmth and strength of his sheer presence. “Let me through, idiot, I need to pee!”

“I’m not sure you’re going to make it. Maybe I can help you with that?” You cup his crotch, watching how his eyes darken.

“God.” He stops, abruptly. With a bitten-off moan, he pushes you down. “God. Look at you. All naked and hard for me.”

You go willingly, sinking to your bare knees, nuzzling at his crotch. The sodden fabric is cold and rough. Reverently, you study its underlying bumps and dips with your lips and tongue and fingers, rubbing at the clammy fabric, revelling in the friction.

His rough breathing quickens.

“Just let go,” you say, gazing up at his heaving chest. His jutting nipples, pert against his shirt, rise and fall with each pant. “Just let go. It’s all right. You can let go now.”

He moans, hand gliding into your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look up at his face. His lips are swollen, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Magic word,” he says, voice laden with honey and gravel.

“Please,” you whisper, your knees painful against the hard floor. “Please.”

“You sound hoarse,” he says, although he might as well be talking about himself. “Your lips look dry. You need to drink more.”

“Yes,” you whisper, running your tongue over your lips. “I’m thirsty.” Mouth dropping open, you stare up at him, transfixed by the way his jaw twitches with the effort of holding back. “Please.”

“Watch,” he says, but his eyes are on you as his fingers clench possessively at the hair curled at the base of your neck, and with another jerk of your head, he directs your gaze back to his groin.

As if you could bear to do anything else. For this is the moment you crave. Your heart judders and skitters as the rough weave of his suit trousers smooths and blurs, flashing hot and golden to reflect the dim glow from the entrance-hall light and then flattening out, covered with a pale-gold, glassy film.

You barely register his relieved gasps. The shiny patch spreads, fatter where it flows out from his cocktip. With your thumb you reach out to trace the source of the hot fluid as it fountains out through the fabric, letting it ripple over your eager hand.

“Suck it,” he says, bunching your hair in his fist, a minute tremble in his voice betraying his arousal.

Dipping forward to press your face into the stream, you moan and suck. You’re intoxicated by the feel of its heat against his cool, rain-slick clothes, by its bitter-sweet tang and the rough friction of the wool on your tongue.

Filled with his heady scent taste, you hum and slurp at the mess, lapping and gulping. With one hand, you palm your own cock until the stream starts to slow. Your eyes flutter closed. There’s a growing urgency pressing inside your belly. Your need waxes even as his wanes.

When you look up, his mouth is slack, his eyes dark.

Fumbling, with clumsy fingers, you release him from his messy clothes, discarding the sodden mess.

Tugging you to your feet, pinning you hard up against the wall, he presses his face to yours, capturing your lips with his, sucking and licking, tasting his own piss on you, til you are gasping for breath. Canting his hips so that you’re lined up from knee to chest, he pushes his half-hard length against your belly, so that a tight knot of pressure builds up behind it.

“Now it’s your turn,” he breathes.

But you can’t. You can’t let go, not yet, not while his thick fingers glide up and down your bare cock, you’re too hard, too full, and it _hurts_. Something of your desperation must show in your eyes. His face softens and he smiles. He steps away.

“Did I mention that I drank a _lot_ today?” he says. He’s ready to go again. Your breathing quickens as you see the golden flash at the tip of his cock. Leaning back against the cold bare wall, holding your cock steady against your body with one hand, exposing yourself to him, you watch as he directs the stream onto you, splashing hot and wet across your aching cock and eager balls. Gasping, you let your hand glide lazily up and down. You’ve been waiting, waiting so long for this, hard and desperate. The hot wet pressure of his piss, coupled with the desperate movements of your hand, are enough to tip you over, cascading into a white-hot orgasm, and you cry out, your head tipping back to hit the wall, come surging up to mingle with his piss on your chest.

“Jesus,” he whispers, his eyes round. “Fuck. Look at you. Fuck.” He moves back in, crowding you, his ragged breaths flaring warm on your bare chest, and with thick fingers he smears the mess around your belly.

You’re unable to speak. Rough gasps escape you as he rubs you, gently at first, and then more insistently. The pressure from your bladder grows unbearable, but you’re still unable to relax enough just yet.

“Come on Merlin. Just let go.” His voice soothes you, his hand wet and hot, rubbing at your distended abdomen until it makes you sob.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I can’t.” 

He sighs, regretful. Pulling you to your feet, so that his cock rests, leaking hot and heavy against your hip, he says, smiling, “let me see what I can do to help.”

He flips you around, so that your hands slap palm-first against the wall, with the shock of cool smoothness against your fingers. A moment later you hear a gentle hiss, feel wet heat splatter against your crack and balls and slide, cooling, down your thighs. A blunt fingertip follows, probing, and you grin at his surprised gasp.

“You did prepare well, didn’t you!” he says, voice a low growl. “Good boy.”

Without further preamble you feel something rounded and thick nudge at your furl, and you pant in anticipation. He presses in further, in, in, as far as he can go. Finally, at last you start to loosen.

You feel it leaking out of you, at first. He rocks in and out once, twice, and that’s it, you can’t help it, the dam breaks and you shout. Piss surges through your cock in a great rush, spraying high on the wall, spilling down it in shiny ropes to pool on the plastic sheeting, and still he continues his relentless fucking.

Through the overwhelming relief, the scent and warmth that fill the air like sunshine, you dimly register his voice and lips against your shoulder, the heat of him lined up against your back, the tiny, choked-off sounds he makes when he comes. Peace washes over you.

#

You stand and drowse against him, leaning in while he cleans you, and himself, the cloth warm and honey-scented, but you leave the clothes and mess.They can wait. Stumbling away together, you doze, entwined, soft and warm on the bed. You listen to the steady drum and clatter of raindrops against the windowpane.

Pressing your lips to his cheek, you think about all the reasons why you love the rain.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any physiological or anatomical impossibilities. This *is* a fantasy, after all. Maybe they're magic?


End file.
